Something Wicked Anthology, Vol. One

by M. Scott Carter

  You see, in the civilization of our home planet, we had begun to lose the explorers. Oh, there were plenty of ersatz explorers running off to climb the highest mountains on Earth, or helicoptering into the wilderness to perform foolish stunts in the snow, but that breed of man who can forge a new trail in the unknown is very rare indeed. We found Pyotr on a trap line in Siberia, in a place so secluded that they barely knew of the coming of communism, and cared little when it fell. We had found twenty who fit the criteria we sought, and he was the first to be awakened, so to him fell the task of surveying the planet.

  He did not report in for a week, and we were all frantic. The computers in his scout ship told us that he was returning to it (to sleep, we assumed), but he did not respond to our calls. When at last he did talk to us, I had never seen a happier face. He was a man content, at peace. He reported that as far as he could tell - and he would not speak for harmful minerals in the soil or suchlike - the planet was livable. More than livable; he called it a paradise. He told us he had never dreamed of such warmth, of such an abundance of water, or of such animals. The creatures, he proclaimed, were timid, but not afraid of him - he had gotten close enough to touch several. He reported that he had tasted two kinds of fruit, thus far, and had found that one was excellent, but that the other was far too bitter to eat. As his flow of words was exhausted, he trailed off and sat in front of the screen, grinning from ear to ear. At last, he added, simply and in Russian (he had made his report in French), “I am home.”

  So began a year of chaos. We began to awaken the colonists. This absorbed the attentions of myself and the minds of four of my colleagues, who had been added to the crew for this very purpose. We immediately discovered, to our horror, that almost twenty percent could not be revived. For whatever reason - and I think I know why, but I will spare you the details - their brains did not come back to a functioning state of consciousness. But we continued, and awakened all we could, and soon the halls of this great ship, empty for so long, were filled with throngs of people, and my crew and I beamed happily down on them. The whole ship was pervaded with a sense of excitement and joy. Once we had the first third awakened - those who would awaken, anyway - we downloaded the brains of three of my colleagues back into their bodies, and in private, guided them back through the therapy required for them to readjust to their humanity.

  Then the first landing was prepared, and the next was nearing readiness, and we sent them down. B. Sterling Merton, my esteemed husband, was among them of course, as first governor over the infant state, which had been designed to reflect the government of the USA back on Earth. Oh, he was ecstatic. He spent hours talking with me about it before he shipped out, his eyes glowing with fervor, absorbed in his dream of future history books with his name writ large... right next to George Washington, I suppose.

  The landing went well, and the prefabricated homes and office buildings went up with few problems. Pyotr had discovered a gravel and sand deposit on his initial survey, much to the engineers’ delight, and they began to make concrete right away to construct domed buildings that would withstand earthquakes and floods, if such things should happen. The second landing crew departed, and my colleagues and I were down to four. I was the remaining person in charge of revival, and the very last thing I had to do as a crew member was to begin the revival of my own body. The third landing was prepared, with only a week left until the Lewis and Clark would become a floating hulk, and I revived my colleagues, then prepared to reanimate my own body.

  They say it feels like falling asleep, only to awaken disoriented and diminished in the senses that were still active in the computer – vision and hearing. But the other senses - touch, taste, smell - are enhanced, and amaze the user with their clarity. Things half forgotten over the intervening centuries are rediscovered, and reveled in. I do not know - I will never know. My body was unrecoverable, and I exist, now and forever in this ship, in the biochips that hold my memories, my consciousness. But I am no longer flesh and blood.

  My colleagues, my friends, my husband... and my children. All are now beyond my grasp. I may never touch them again, never hold my babies close, or rest in the embrace of love. I cried, once they were all gone; I cried with all the speakers on, and my sobs echoed through the vast loneliness of my new home, my prison.

  But to the colonists below I projected great confidence, encouraging and supporting them until they were all down and settled. Then I called a conference, and all those who would be leaders of their new planetary government gathered to listen. I bade them farewell, telling them that I was going to continue on into the unknown in this old, enormous metal body of mine. I spoke to them of life, and warned them to always treasure it, no matter how long they lived here or how crowded it grew. I told them that whenever I found a suitable planet, I would send messages back to them, and perhaps I would come back someday.

  I knew, though, that I would never come back. Humanity in all its fleshly mortality is a reminder to me of what I once had, and cannot ever have again. I will never again hold another human being in my arms. Not even you, my son. You are so precious, and I can see you, hear your cries, but never feel your skin. I know it must be soft; I know what a baby feels like, but I can never know the feel of you, the scent of you. I knew this even when I falsified your death report, and kept you and the others for my own. They will join you soon, twenty men and women strong and brave, but I wanted you to myself for a while.

  Shhhh.... don’t cry. I know the arms around you aren’t real, but they are so lifelike, and I know they are warm. I just tested them. Listen to me and always remember, my precious child,

  “I am your mother.”

  WHAT IS EVIL, WHAT IS NOT

  by Sylvia Hiven

  As we stepped into the bedroom, I thought Father Callahan had exaggerated.

  Indeed, the stench was bad; the odor of stale vomit and human waste lay like a veil in the room. And yes, the man that sat in the bed was a mere skeleton, his hollow cheeks pasty despite the amber light from his bedside lamp. But he had his hands clasped around a crucifix, and while his eyes were dark with fear, there was no sign of the devil in him.

  It will not be what you expect, Marion, Father Callahan had said. You might think you know what is evil, and what is not, but it's not that simple. This battle might cost you your faith, as it has many others.

  Yet, from the lucid look in the man’s eyes, I felt I had stepped into a winning battle.

  “Father.” His voice came raspy, like nails scratching over brittle parchment. “Praise the Lord.”

  “Don't fret, Mr Keefe.” Father Callahan walked to the bed, put his Bible on the table next to it and enveloped the man's hand with his own. “This time, we'll cast it out for good, God willing.”

  The man nodded. He looked towards the door where I stood. “Another seminary student.”

  It was a statement, not a question, and there was a slight edge to his voice. I felt heat rush into my cheeks. “Sir, if you would rather I was not here, I'd be happy to lea—”

  “No, stay. Father Callahan is a man of faith most abundant, but another warrior of God can't hurt. What's your name, boy?”

  “Marion Quinn, Sir.”

  “Marion is one of our most promising students,” said Father Callahan. “His faith runs deep.”

  “Did it not in all of them?” The edge was back in Keefe's voice. Father Callahan ignored the question. Instead he took Keefe's hand, which still clutched the crucifix, and turned it over. Even from six feet away, I could see the raised burns in his palms where he had held it. I couldn't contain a gasp.

  “Holy symbols burn it now,” said Father Callahan. “That's good. It means we're beating it. How else has it been manifesting?”

  “The smells started this morning.” Keefe nodded toward the bedside table, where there was a vase of dying roses, their slender necks bent in submission to some unseen force. “And all day, the flowers change between wilted and blooming. But Father...” He paused, raising his l
iver-spotted hands to his cheeks. “My face. She's changing my face. I look in the mirror, and I see flashes of her. She's getting stronger.”

  “Well, we're getting stronger, too, Mr Keefe. The entire congregation has been praying for you, and we have Marion here — a strong soul. If this demon manifests tonight, it might very well be the last time it shows its face.” He patted Keefe on the shoulder, then turned to me. “Come, Marion, let's go downstairs to the kitchen. We must prepare.”

  “I apologize, it is probably a mess in the kitchen. I sent the housekeeper home when the smells started. If the demon manifests...” Keefe paused, and shuddered. “Martha is old, and has been with me since my wife died. I didn't want her to see that monster take me over.”

  “We are not here to worry about your soiled kitchen,” Father Callahan said. “We're here to bring peace to your soul. Is there something we can get you before we begin? A glass of water, perhaps?”

  “No, Father. You being here is comfort enough.”

  Mr Keefe smiled as he spoke, but the smile didn't reach his eyes — as if he didn't believe it himself.

  The kitchen was a disaster. A pile of dishes fermented in the sink, flies buzzing about it, and pots and pans sat unwashed on the stovetop. Father Callahan, familiar with the surroundings, took my coat and hung it on a hook hidden on the back of the kitchen door.

  “Tell me, Father,” I said, straightening my cassock. “How many times have you visited Mr Keefe?”

  “Maybe a dozen times in the past few years.”

  “Years?”

  “Yes.” He slipped his stole around his shoulders. “He's been attacked several times by this demon.”

  “He called it 'she'.”

  “We don't know its name, but it manifests as female.”

  “It's always the same demon?”

  Father Callahan glanced at me with a disapproving frown. “You must realize, Marion, Satan's forces are stubborn. This demon wants him, and it will not give up until either Keefe gives himself to it, or we cast it out. Just as you and I are passionate about our cause, they are equally passionate about theirs.”

  “And what is their cause, exactly? Of all the souls for the taking, why possess this man?”

  “Mr Keefe is a man of means. It's not uncommon for demons to aim to possess those who can give them powers on Earth. They could do much with Mr Keefe's influence.” He straightened his back and handed me the Bible and vials of holy water. “But this isn't seminary school, Marion. No more questions. All I need you to do is watch and pray.”

  When we returned to Keefe's bedroom, he was sitting up in the bed. His hands writhed about each other like pale doves, anxiety sheeting his face.

  “The flowers,” he said. “Father, the flowers. She's on her way, I can feel her.”

  The flowers, that just minutes earlier had hung half-withered, sat perky and colorful in their vase. There was a strong scent in the room, but it wasn't the smell of roses; the room was enveloped in the thick scent of a familiar spice I couldn't place.

  Father Callahan walked to the bed. He handed Keefe the crucifix. “Hold this tightly, and pray with us. With God's help, we will burn this creature out of you if it shows itself.”

  There was a momentary sound of sizzling, and a swirl of gray smoke wafted out from between Keefe's clutched fingers. He grimaced, yet kept the crucifix in his fist. Father Callahan sat down in a cushioned chair, Bible in hand.

  I remained standing in the doorway, unsure of what to do.

  “Put the vials on the table, Marion. Then take a seat.”

  I did as asked, leaving the vials on the bedside table and sinking down into a chair in a corner of the room. Keefe lay back down and closed his eyes. His lips moved in mute prayer, reduced to hints of whispers.

  I looked expectantly at Father Callahan.

  “Relax, Marion,” he said. “It does not burst in through the door, it steals in on its tiptoes. It usually takes a while. Just pray.”

  He lowered his head and fell into the citing of prayers alongside Keefe. I mumbled the words with them, trying to take his advice and relax, but my eyes wandered to the flowers by the bed. Were they growing stronger? And what was that scent? Ginger?

  Hours passed. Keefe remained motionless in his bed as the scent swelled and diminished, like breaths of the demon threatening just beyond. The praying ceased; Keefe and Father Callahan both dozed off, their breathing in sync. The crucifix in Keefe's fist had ceased its burn.

  I didn't realize that I had dozed off as well until a whisper startled me awake.

  “Marion? Wake up.”

  I sat up in my chair, rubbing my eyes. Father Callahan was still asleep across the room, gentle snores escaping him in bursts. He had not spoken; it was Keefe.

  But it wasn't Keefe, either. It was her.

  I watched something ripple beneath Keefe’s skin. His pasty complexion lightened, taking on the hue of lilies rather than parchment. A foreign face gradually merged into his features and possessed him with softness, throwing light into his tired eyes. Beneath the covers, his scrawny limbs rounded and filled to something I instinctively wanted to reach out and touch.

  What sat before me was a woman of soft beauty. If she was a champion of Satan, she was his fairest warrior. I knew I should be afraid but all I felt was fascination.

  In the now slender hand, the crucifix ceased its burn.

  I opened my mouth to wake up Father Callahan, but no words crossed my lips. It was as if an invisible finger was laid against them, commanding the words to dissolve in my throat.

  “Please, don't say anything. Just listen.”

  “Demon.” My words flowed without protest when they were meant for her, not to alert Father Callahan. “That's all you are. I won't listen to anything you have to say.”

  “If you are a man of God, you must hear me. I am not what you think I am.”

  I looked into her eyes, trying not to let their beauty intimidate me. “You are the Deceiver,” I said. “I know what games you play.”

  I flipped open my prayer book and with trembling fingers searched for the page that Father Callahan had pointed out to me as particularly powerful. When I found the right page, I began to push out the words in clumsy Latin.

  The demon spoke calmly. “Don't you think that if those words were hurtful to me, Father Callahan would have cast me out by now? They are the words of God, and I am a child of His. Those words cannot throw me out.” She held up her hand, in which the crucifix still lay. “Do you not wonder why the burning of this stopped when Keefe's mind gave way to mine? Or why the flowers bloom in my presence?”

  I sat still for a moment, looking at her outstretched palm. It was uncharred.

  “It burned you earlier.”

  “It burned him. It did not burn me.”

  “Then you will not mind a test?” I snatched one of the vials of holy water from the bedside table and unscrewed the cork. “Can you withstand water blessed in the name of our Savior?”

  Without waiting for an answer, I threw the water at her face. It splashed over her features — increasingly womanly, increasingly beautiful — and while she drew a startled gasp, the water did not burn. Instead, it smoothed the few remaining wrinkles on her cheeks, leaving tiny amber freckles in its wake.

  “Do you see now? You are fighting the wrong enemy.”

  Her words made sense, and I hated it. I blinked, trying to refocus. I knew I should wake the Father, but the glint in the angelic demon's eyes forbade it. Despite all that my common sense screamed at me, I believed her.

  I sank back in the chair. We sat in silence for a few minutes. All I could do was stare at her, and wait for her to speak again. My eyes caressed her, sliding over the sheen of her hair, the angle of her cheekbone, the curve of her breast. To my shame, I felt desire stir deep inside of me, but she didn't seem to notice.

  “I rarely get to rise to the surface this long,” she finally said. “Perhaps it's because of you.”

  “Me?”


  “The others never could face the truth. They were afraid of it. But you are a man of pure faith, Father Callahan said. Perhaps God meant for you to see me, and he is letting me linger. Whatever the reason, I will trust it brought you here for a reason — to perform God’s will.”

  “And you say God’s will is to let you take this earthly body?”

  “It's only fair. He took mine." She opened her mouth — her sweet, rose-colored lips — to say more, but was interrupted by the stirring of Father Callahan. Her gaze shot to me, horror shining in her eyes. The keen sparkle in them fell away.

  “I can't stay. Callahan will never see. But I am telling the truth. He took my body, so his belongs to me. Follow your heart, Marion. You know what is evil, and what is not.”

  As she lay back in the bed, sinking into the depths from where her soul had risen and closing her eyes, Father Callahan opened his. When I looked back, her beauty had been washed away by the withered features of an old man.

  The roses bent their necks in grief, and the scent of ginger was gone.

  She didn’t manifest again after Father Callahan awoke.

  Keefe didn’t seem to notice that he had been taken over. He lay in the bed, wheezing acrid breath into the room, and I realized with disgust how much I wished she had remained in him.

  Father Callahan mumbled a few more prayers before closing his Bible with a sigh. “I suppose it was a false alarm, Mr Keefe. Evil does not seem to want to appear today.”